ack when I was 12, my best friend Shane and I spent most of our summer weekends camping in thick woods behind my family's farm house. We'd pitch our tent next to fishing pond and would spend weekend in great outdoors.
While we imagined we were living off fat of land, we were really living off larder of my father: Once or twice a day we'd go to house, a mere quarter mile away, share a meal with my family, and stock up on chips, snacks and thermosfuls of sweet iced-tea. On Sunday mornings we would breakfast at house for Sunday was day that my father ventured into kitchen to make a batch of his famous (at least among Allen clan) biscuits-and-sausage-gravy.
It was one of these Sunday mornings that great bear hunting incident took place.
We woke early one morning and set upon task of fishing. If we were lucky we could catch a few fish before going on up to house for breakfast. It was a peaceful day and we were enjoying silence until we were disturbed by clamor of something moving in woods. Quiet at first but increasingly louder, raucous noise quickly proved to be nothing than my younger sister, all of seven, traipsing loudly down trail from house.
"Keep it down, will you, we're fishing!" I yelled.
"Fine," she said, sticking her tongue out at two of us. "Then I won't tell you that Dad said breakfast is ready." And she turned and tromped back up trail louder than before.
As soon as she was gone, Shane and I eagerly started winding our reels in. Both our stomach's were growling at thought of meal to come. Just as we we're setting our poles next to tent, we heard a scream that was obviously Michelle. Shane and I ran down path, towards noise, going just a short distance before seeing my sister who was tearing back down path towards us.
"What's matter?" Shane asked, putting his arm around her shoulder. Her eyes were wide and wet with tears and she was shaking like treetops in a thunderstorm.